Finally, some breeze comin' our way.

In the meantime, I'm sick and hived all over. 

Meet Apollo:

Myth of the moment (for a month now):

"Apollo and Daphne" oil on canvas, John William Waterhouse, 1908

Daphne and Apollo

At the end of the pursuit
is a reversal:
set down
upon the earth at last,
she takes root,
splinters
into branch and leaf,
her shape turning lush,
verdant and immortal.
Abandoned
to the windy fill
of his arms,
he clutches at damp sod,
breathes in such loss,
and snaps off
bright sprigs of her hair
to weave them
into his own.
In the heart
of the wood,
a god learns too late:
love transforms
never quite in one way.
The one who loves
survives, remembers
in his solitude
his body's dark
sorrow.
The one loved,
slight and always fleeing,
lets fly a light-borne wish
to the air,
and painlessly escapes
into another beauty:
a new lover
or a tree.

-J. Neil C. Garcia,
from The Sorrows of Water

Chow King Halo-halo + Fruits in Ice Cream + Yellow Cab NY Classic + Icebergs Halo-halo + Starbucks Iced Grande Mocha + Tater's white cheddar-coated potato chips + Razon's Halo-halo + etc. + etc. + etc.

This insufferable heat is making me fat.

Gravity

The mind and the heart hunger for flight but the feet remain on the ground.

The soul dreams of its displaced darkness.

Walang Magawa...

The Night House

by Billy Collins

Every day the body works in the fields of the world
Mending a stone wall
Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass—
The grass of civics, the grass of money—
And every night the body curls around itself
And listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
From the body in the middle of the night,
Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
With its thick, pictureless walls
To sit by herself at the kitchen table
And heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
And opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
And roams from room to room in the dark,
Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
In her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
Singing a song about the wildness of the sea
Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

Resuming their daily colloquy,
Talking to each other or themselves
Even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body—the house of voices—
Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
To stare into the distance,

To listen to all its names being called
Before bending again to its labor.


found here.

Chalk

The girl in the purple dress always feels a jolt when she walks into a club, no matter how hard she tries to prepare herself, and tonight is no exception. The lurch feels strangely strong now, she thinks, as two burly men in black open the glass doors for her and she steps into dim lights, blaring music (electronica, as they call it), cigarette smoke, black-clad people from the twenty-something demographic, laughter and talk, beer bottles, the smell of beer. A quick glance around the room points her to the friend whose birthday it is, the friend who had asked her to come. After the requisite smile, the peck on the cheek and the greeting, she singles out a seat in the corner of the bar and walks towards it, all the while holding her chin high and trying extremely hard to act nonchalant, even when all she wants to do is to turn on her heels and run away, out into the evening air, the friendly, quiet evening air. Instead, she sits down on her chosen nook, exchanges hellos with the couple nearby, orders a coke, and stares at the empty napkin holder on the table in front of her. The music seems to have gotten louder and she is grateful that the couple she is sharing the table with seems to be as spiritless as she is. Cigarette smoke starts to sting her eyes and she shuts them tight for ten seconds, feeling the urge to keep them closed for ten more. Instead, she opens them and sees the same tarnished lights blurring the same, nameless faces, hears the same thundering music drowning the small, shallow conversations. She takes a sip from her coke and thinks of her soft, warm bed.

How your day was

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions. 
-Elizabeth Bishop, "Conversation"-

The mirror throws back a child's face, the only tell-tale windows of sadness and years, the tired eyes. What a relief it is to lie down and stretch the legs, to move the toes that for hours and hours had been confined in the narrow, triangular concaves of the three-inch stilettos you knew had been a mistake, not when you knew the extent of wandering that was to come when you slipped into them yesterday. But now, it's the evening after the day of that afternoon and the body lies supine on a soft, familiar bed--because there often is softness in the familiar--even as streams of the last nineteen hours' sundry conversations still intersect in your head and the approaching twilight shows little promise of a peaceful night. In your head, too, the lines of a song weave themselves into the lines of a poem, and you become the "you" in the song, and one of everyone else in the poem. You, walking, and the memory of aimlessness, the aimlessness of your  feet as they took a path that led nowhere that you wanted to believe was somewhere, and that did take you somewhere: you, alone, there, somewhere. And, finally, as the day finds its end: you, here, somewhere, and somewhere else.

Shut Your Eyes (Snow Patrol)

Shut your eyes and think of somewhere
Somewhere cold and caked in snow
By the fire we break the quiet
Learn to wear each other well

And when the worrying starts to hurt
and the world feels like graves of dirt
Just close your eyes until
you can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will

Shut your eyes, I spin the big chair
And you'll feel dizzy, light, and free
And falling gently on the cushion
You can come and sing to me

And when the worrying starts to hurt
and the world feels like graves of dirt
Just close your eyes until
you can imagine this place, yeah, our secret space at will

Shut your eyes
Shut your eyes and sing to me
Shut your eyes and sing to me


*video

Your lethargy,

sprawled, limp, on the chair.

My eyes trace its drowsy lines and I ask "why the weariness?" and you say, "I don't know. Maybe it's this sudden shift from hopelessness to hope."

I nod. 

Still,

this restlessness, this wandering into near nearness, this wondering if that scent is the scent of rain, of evening, or of something else. If I kept still, still enough, long enough to be still, will this wandering, this wondering, this maddening roaming in pursuit of that stillness, cease?

"At the end of my suffering there was a door."

-"The Wild Iris", Louise Gluck-

Last night, just before I fell asleep, I remembered that May was my dark month. The thought fell in, unannounced. Just like that.

I remembered: everything that came after that May was a climb out of some hollow, some grave.

I am grateful I never really tried to find out what specific day it was in May I had begun digging, or when I stopped. Even the hour eludes me, and that's a good thing, I guess.

Those details, at least, would not come back to haunt, and the memory's edges would, somehow, be blurred.

"Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday."
-author unknown-

One line, another.

Twilight is almost here.
Someone just sighed.
Repression is maddening.
Last night's laughter and songs have been left on last night's doorstep.
One realizes that one has to move with the hours.
The minutes go by and soon we find ourselves in the same second, on the same spot.
Nothing stays where you put it.
The heart sinks more often than one wishes it to.
Help me give a name to this absence between us.
We connect one certainty to another and come up with uncertainty.
Stop wondering what will happen next.
If I knock, will you let me in?
Good night.

Possible Facebook status posts for today:

is wondering who the next president will be. Would be extremely sad if this country bursts into orange once the counting ends. Yellow is a much friendlier shade.

is musing. So, what are you, really?

feels confined by this world's fences. It's a good thing there are other planes one can escape to. Thank heavens for words.

wants to know when the sun will stop its stinging ways.

is frustrated by all the circumlocution going on in the book she's reading. Or maybe she's just not in the frame of mind to focus.

is questioning her present state. Is she here, or elsewhere?

has gone from hot coffee to iced and realizes that this has been the wisest decision she has made in a long, long while.

---

Astig.

Vantage Couch

Ted Neeley, "Gethsemane"

Slim, 40-something, Caucasian woman in a tie-dyed sleeveless top, sitting very straight and very tall. She is eating a muffin and sipping some iced, tea-like drink. She is reading something from her laptop. Or maybe she's just staring at the screen. Freckled arms. Shoulder-length, auburn, wavy hair. Very pretty bag, zebra print, red handles. It is lying carelessly on the floor.

Keri Hilson and Kanye west, "Knock You Down"
Skip.

Simply Red, "Fairground"
Good enough.

Man who looks like Santa Claus (hair, moustache and beard all white as snow) typing something on his flip-top phone. Message to Mrs. Claus, maybe? Hurry up, dear, I'm getting bored here..

Florence and the Machine, "Drumming Song"

Oh, turns out it wasn't Mrs. Claus sir claus was waiting for, after all. Some guy who looks like Ken Watanabe (from the back, at least) arrives and sits on the couch in front of Mr. Claus. His smile is warm (I could not see Ken, but I figure he's smiling, too). They talk. Mr. Claus's eyes are blue. He has very nice, very white teeth.

Fiona Apple, "Waltz"

Teen-aged girl reading Tuesdays With Morrie. Green shirt with white piping, denim shorts, sneakers. Hair tied carelessly in a ponytail. She seems so earnest, as if she were reading something really engrossing, something really... good. Hmm. I wouldn't wanna be in her shoes.

Oh, look, there's another guy with a white beard. I was gonna say "another Claus look-alike" but I figured he looked more like some character straight out of a Dickens novel.

Edie Brickell, "Good Times"

“I had a teacher I liked who used to say good fiction’s job was to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. I guess a big part of serious fiction’s purpose is to give the reader, who like all of us is sort of marooned in her own skull, to give her imaginative access to other selves. … We all suffer alone in the real world; true empathy’s impossible. But if a piece of fiction can allow us imaginatively to identify with a character’s pain, we might then also more easily conceive of others identifying with our own. This is nourishing, redemptive; we become less alone inside.”

David Foster Wallace
-via
 Jonathan Carroll

Overheard, over lunch:

A: This is really cool!
B: What is?
A: Waffle. Sevendust.
B: Whoa. You like that song?
A: I already told you, I fell in love with it the first time you let me listen to it.
B: Oh, yeah, I forgot...

...
B: But that's metal.
A: And so?
B: Okay. Okay.

...
A: Oh, look what's playing next.
B: What?
A: Aretha. Hahaha. From Sevendust to Aretha. Awesome.
B: hahaha. That's some eclectic shit you've got there.
A: Thank you for giving me this iPod.
B: You've thanked me a hundred times.
A: You know what this is? It's more than just an iPod. It chronicles the evolution of my musical tastes. Plus, it's the physical manifestation of your music and my music, blending. This iPod is us.

Awww.
Keso.

Pffftt...

If somebody asked me what the verbal equivalent of a rolling of the eyes is---

--I don't think I'd know what to answer.

We chase art and don't know it--

the iPod we patiently save part of our paychecks for; the concert we brave the Friday rush hour to get to, on time; that painting in the cafe we always find ourselves staring at, because the taste of the coffee goes so well with the sight of the colors on the canvas; that tune we hum inside our heads the entire day; that novel, that book of poetry we forego lunch for; those few, short lines we hunt pen and paper to scribble down. That itch to see, that craving to hear.

We often feel the urge to burst into song and almost always find that there is no crowd, no one, to sing for.

Hence, we sing to ourselves.

And that would do, for now.

Oh, gleek.

This darned, friggin' heat is certainly pulling up the cranks. Blame it on the sun, sure. 

And blame it on "Glee" for bringing out this cheese ball of a girl.

But there you have it, I bawled like a baby while watching Kristin Chenoweth sing "Home" in the latest episode's final scene.

And then I watched it again, and again, and again. Meanwhile, the requisite tears just didn't want to stop, until even my emotion-clouded brain misted over with tears, and I kept thinking: it sucks to be a grown-up. I wanna go back to my childhood. I was happier there. I was home, there.

Listen to the song here.

But she knew what it was like to be still, that piece
of a moment when the mind wakes up to the sound
of something crashing...

-from "Sleepwalking" by Joy Icayan-

A Visit

Well, what do you know...

It's raining tonight.

April

The days seem to have acquired an aimlessness to them. Perhaps, it's that standstill brought by the heat, that dry, dry mist in the air that paralyzes the mind into a stasis of some sort. The occasional wind, blowing at whim and frugally, too, doesn't prove much of a help.

The mind dreams of rain.

Rain, glorious rain.

For now, we watch our thoughts desiccate, crack into dust.

Girlfriends

Forsaking despair, we are keen
on shoving this faith into ourselves...

-J. Neil Garcia, "Smoked Salmon Surprise"-


The two of us, facing each other across a wooden table in the middle of a hot afternoon, 1:04, to be exact. Beer in a glass, half-finished iced tea on another. A breather, right after the quarrel with the boyfriend who's oceans and oceans away, accusing you of "never being there" for him just because you were unable to answer the phone when he called, an hour earlier. Then, forty minutes of talk, of explaining, of assuring, of telling him he's a great guy, in spite of his inability to find work, of reminding him to take some medicine or another for his flu, of promises, hush, it's alright, it's alright. After the click, a sigh.

Dearie, it's alright, you know how men can be. Yeah, I know. He needs you, you see, needs you to be strong for him. But he can get so paranoid, at times, you know? It gets to me, it really does. You love him. So it is all about that, no? Not all the time, I'm just saying he's a lucky guy because you love him and you stick by. Oh my God, imagine if I got tired of it all and just left him. You've got to be kidding. He will absolutely go mad. Yeah, he's already mad, the way things are. But, see, it can't be easy for him, too, I mean, being so far away and all alone. I guess you're right. I have to be strong for him.

Men. They are such boys.

One nods, the other shakes her head. Laughter.

Cheers to us. 

(giggle)

You'll be fine. We'll be fine.

Madaya ka, you didn't finish your beer. 

*For L--*

Weekend browse:

A walk across the rooftops 
by Luis Katigbak

Teach

the feet to arch, nonchalant, on heels. Each conversation is a potential fight to be won. Paint the eyebrows just so--even a frown should spell not doubt but mere deep thought. Stare when stared at. Don't storm off, just walk away.

Women on glossies and other surfaces: stop looking.

Resist

Simmering after that extended outburst did you think it'd be this soon the blue takes over In the middle of pretending to give options would any of those two have done it for you That secret relief oh that blessing of an exhale over his refusal to choose it brought in the calm oh what heaviness a sigh takes away what appeasement after the knockdown how tempting to give in to the pull of that traitor of a smile tiny and tugging

From "Gift" by J. Neil Garcia

And you are everywhere
even as you are nowhere
in touch, for here is the place
things cherished are laid bare in--
the edge of body's knowing,
the edge of the world.
And I know my task
for the day
is no different from the tide's:
to take in and let go,
to push against land and
pull away, to love you without claims.
For nothing given
is ever owned, and ghosts
we already are
of fickle matter's imaginings.

Hindi Man Malaman ng Mundo

ni Mesandel Virtusio Arguelles

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
nilalaman naman ng mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
nailalaman sa mundo
ang hindi kailangang malaman ng mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
sapat na ang nilikhang mundo
sa iyong mundo

Hindi man malaman ng mundo
sapat na ang kaalamang minsan
nagkalaman

at maaaring maabo
ang mundo hindi man malaman

I stepped into a bookstore yesterday

and was greeted by Jorie Grahams, Louise Glucks, Billy Collinses, and Robert Hasses.

Why, oh, why does money always have to be an object?

Oh, well. One book per payday, then. That's the best I can do.

PSYCHE

by J. Neil Carmelo Garcia, from The Sorrows of Water

Her error is believing she can only love him with the soul. For her sake he has been real enough-- shadow-clad and without a body, the way she accepts everything must be in the naked beginning. His voice, to her, is water: when he speaks she feels she hears his true self purling out of rocks in a blurred, dreamy forest-- a thought which makes her shimmer, unrecognizable, to herself. His words: she does not mind stepping into them, makeshift houses of sound, which the soul inhabits if only to be known at all. But the rest of his breathing absence, his lack of shape and face-- she fancies to be his most beautiful feature. Thinking herself enlightened, she must make him see she seeks him past the accidents of sight, smell and taste-- faint flowers crumbling under her sheerest touch. So it comes to her as a surprise she needs him whole, after all. Like a craving for something sour, the desire for texture seizes her one breezeless night-- and she finds herself stealing toward him with a lamp, dim and sighing. The rest we remember as a tale about gods teaching mortals a bright lesson in temperance: love, a labor of roots and sap ascending from soil to fleshy fruit, is not so much given as deserved. But in her mind what will linger is the specter of his skin, filmed and warmly gleaming with drops of fragrant oil. Beholding him laid open, at once, she understands: the love of body is the love of form. Body-- the luminous edge where the soul can begin.

this frown this mole that shirt these books these days this lock of hair those handkerchiefs those years those years those years that weariness this page those songs these eyes this sigh

me

Seasonal whining

Every summer season seems hotter than the last one.

One feels almost ungrateful for the breeze because the heat it brings along stings the skin like so, just so, so that the mind feels the pinpricks of a dizzying soreness that will not succumb to the numbness that is usually easy enough to assume.

No, not when it's this hot, this dry, so that we are almost prompted to ask why ever did we wish for sun, now that so much sun is here.

Tsk. The heat indeed does things to the mind.

What's keeping me afloat,

these days, is my capacity to drift by and over and back, that penchant for indifference, that c'est la vie attitude, that shrug, that series of languorous blinks leading to a series of standstills.

What can I do, it does seem to work.

Most of the time.

What about you? What do you do?

Again

Mercury is retrograding come April 18th.

Exhale, my dears. The thing to do is to chill.

Sorry, M--.

This crossed my mind while I was brushing my teeth this morning:

Between "Before Sunrise" and "Singles" is the distinction between "being" and "is".  

These days...

image from erinsavage

1st of April

The book I'm reading, even as it is remarkably written (and perhaps it is owing to this, too), hits too close to home and I find that I have to put it down, time and again.

I am more than halfway into it. I will finish in due time.


I guess the Holy Week does bring gray skies. Bright blue would be too much of an incongruity.

Last year, I wrote this. A little ashen, as it should be.

What I'm reading right now:

from chapter 10, p. 497:
And she, Frederica, had had a vision of being able to be all the things she was: language, sex, friendship, thought, just as long as these were kept scrupulously separate, laminated, like geological strata, not seeping and flowing into each other like organic cells boiling to join and divide and join in a seething Oneness. Things were best cool, and clear, and fragmented, if fragmented was what they were.
     "Only connect," the "new paradisal unit" of "Oneness," these were myths of desire, the desire and pursuit of the Whole.
     And if one accepts fragments, layers, tesserae of mosaic, particles.
     There is an art form in that, too. Things juxtaposed but divided, not yearning for fusion.

Heartbreak

is seeing one's child shed quiet tears.

Thank you for getting well, my baby. You gave mommy quite a scare.

For S--

We talk of sadness and agree

not to.

TODAY:

What's yours?

"As though the very act of unbosoming one's secret self were simply another way of affirming it."
-J. Neil C. Garcia, Myths and Metaphors-

It's funny how we eventually find ourselves looking for the things we love, even as they intermittently blur themselves from our immediate surroundings, even as we find ourselves losing them in the course of the day-to-day, because the drone of the quotidian is a plane that's easy to disappear into.

The pull soon comes and we give in, only too willingly.

I experienced such a relinquishment--consciously, at that--when I came across where Garcia described how "lingering in it can induce in you such feelings of sharp melancholy", pertaining to "one's solitude as a poet".

I make no claims, at all, of being one, oh no, that would be a sacrilege.

I meant that I realized how I would always have that hunger for words and the many designs I could make of them and out of them--no matter that they are clumsy, at best and feeble, at worst.

There would always be that desire to design some imagined tapestry, because I know that I have my own loom on which to weave--my years and the gaps in between, for even in those gaps, there is, and there will always be, something to create something with.

As, of course, there would always be that struggle with the self over what is real and what is imagined, over the self and the desired, that all too consuming desperation which can only find rest in line, in stanza.

Arrgh. Total lack of understatement up there.

Convoluted, convoluted, convoluted.

I need another cup of coffee.

Nakakaloka

Yesterday, over snacks of cookies and chocolate cake:

JACKIE: Mommy, which would you rather choose, the heart or the soul?
ME: (silence)
KIM: I'd rather choose the soul 'cos the heart can be really stupid.
ME: (silence)


Hay.

Gloria Jean's Cafe, Robinson's Galleria

So this is what it's like on a Monday morning here.

There are too many people, too much noise from the adjacent road, too many conversations going on, that my powers of alienation refuse to shut out. The jazz music from the store's speakers are drowned into paltry strains.

OMG, there is an Anthony Hopkins look-alike sitting on the couch two meters across mine, eating a grilled sandwich, could be BLT or something. Blue eyes, and all. Yup, he's white. The guy, I mean. M-- says he looks more like James Gandolfini.


Noise, noise, noise. Zone out, Shan.

Nope, can't do it.

Grrr.

The weight of ninety-seven ticking clocks

Facing a door almost always brings about that feeling of waiting, that sense of expectation, some imminent arrival--

even when there is no beginning to circle back to, in the first place.

I guess one's distance from the door presents what available gradations of anticipation there may be.

I am approximately eleven wide steps away from a door. And, no, I am not waiting for someone, or anything, in particular.

Still, yes, there is that feeling. That feeling.

“Fear can keep us up all night long, but faith makes one fine pillow.”
-author unknown-